Miss March and Mr Laurence: A Love Story
by missglitterlips
Summary: Laurie has been in love with Miss March since the moment he saw her, and he knows she loves him too. But love is never so simple... A series of POV episodes, mostly inspired by the 1994 film but with elements of the book where it suits my angst-ridden purposes!
1. Cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles

_In which the young Mr. Laurence makes his acquaintance with the March sisters_

Parties, fancies Theodore Laurence, are nothing more than a charade performed with the combined purposes of amusing young women as they canter towards adulthood, and torturing young men as they resolutely cling to the last vestiges of boyhood, against a clever backdrop of waltzes and fruit punch. He cultivates this clever theory from behind the curtain that conceals a recess that he imagines must have been designed by some poor soul like himself who craved respite from the unerring decadence of the Gardiners' ballroom; after a mere ten minutes of social niceties, Theodore – or Laurie, as his naturally informal nature insists he be known – had been unable to bear it no longer. The recess has proved a capital retreat, equipped with a table on which to rest his dessert, and an armchair from which he now contentedly watches a succession of young ladies parade by.

His eye is caught first of all by a young lady (although Laurie suspects in this case that is not the correct terminology) who appears as discomforted by the situation as he himself. She is skirting around the edge of the dance floor and while at first he is puzzled by her apparent game for one, it soon becomes clear that she is wilfully avoiding the eye of a red-haired youth who seems set on capturing her for a dance. Laurie is amused by the pursuit for a moment, until his attention is diverted most completely by a young woman executing the polka as expertly as any Swiss maiden. Her grace is but the first virtue he notices; as he watches he becomes aware of her lustrous dark curls, her porcelain skin, her soft full lips (here his mind wanders for a moment away from the ballroom to altogether less refined pursuits), and - oh! – her clear blue eyes, sparkling as she smiles an angel's smile in response to some witticism uttered by her partner. Laurie half rises from his perch: this girl is reason enough to re-join the festivities, he will ask her to dance the moment she becomes available –

\- but this thought is interrupted before he can complete it by a figure crashing through the curtain and knocking him bodily back into the chair beneath a scorched (scorched? Did he see that correctly?) gown and a mane of chestnut hair.

'Oh! Please, excuse me – I'll go!' It is the prey of the red-headed youth, and a mixture of surprise and grudging admiration for her avoidance tactics moves Laurie to invite her to stay.

They exchange pleasantries for a few moments and Laurie realises before she confirms it that she is one of the March sisters he has spied in the house door. Jo, it transpires; by day the reluctant companion to an elderly aunt, but in this moment a natural friend and confidant with whom he is soon sharing various truths about his wild European upbringing. Conversation flows easily and soon to the matter of the young women on the dance floor.

'Who were you staring at?' Jo asks the question innocently and Laurie forgets to be cautious in his response.

'Well – I was quite taken with that one'. The angel is conveniently passing as he speaks, her delicate slippers scarcely touching the floor as she dances. Something in Jo's face flickers – recognition perhaps? – and in a bold response to an earlier challenge regarding his fluidity in the French tongue, he asks, 'Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?'

Jo laughs. 'Let me see – "who is the young lady in the pretty slippers?" That's Meg – that's my sister', and Laurie suddenly sees the likeness, although Jo's face, while filled with character and good humour, has none of Meg's beauty. Something in his face must give him away, for Jo asks, 'Do you think she's pretty?'

Laurie hesitates, wondering how best to respond without revealing the infatuation that has developed just this evening. 'Yes', he finally admits, 'she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.'

Whether this response is satisfactory or not Laurie does not know for Jo merely nods and asserts, 'Well – she's completely bald in front!' and follows this non-sequitur by immediately shifting the conversation to some topic closer to her own interests. For his part, Laurie chats cordially away and gladly accepts her invitation to dance about the recess when the band strikes up a lively tune (an agreement he begins to regret as she steps on his toes for the fourth time, asserting that it is not her fault, that Meg always makes her take the gentleman's part during practice); but his mind is not wholly focused on his companion. No, his thoughts cannot be stopped from drifting back to Meg, and the wish that the aforementioned pretty slippers were the trespassers on his feet.

…

When, some two hours later, his revelry with Jo is halted by the manifestation of Meg reclining, pale, on a couch in the hallway, Laurie wonders if his persistent imaginings have somehow brought her there. A brief exchange between the sisters reveals that this is not the case; that Meg has merely sprained her ankle (ah, the cruelty of the formerly admirable slippers!) and wishes to go home, and Laurie at once does the gentlemanly thing and offers his carriage to relay them all. Jo accepts at once, her response in the affirmative quite drowning Meg's protestations, and the matter is settled. Meg flushes as she stands, saying,

'Please – don't tell Mrs Gardiner. She'll think I've been sampling the punch!'

Laurie smiles – the idea had never entered his head but the shrewish hostess would most certainly make such an assumption – and he hastily withdraws the arm he had offered, lest anyone deduce that Miss March had imbibed too much refreshment to stand unaided. Jo, striding ahead, does not notice the gesture, but for the first time that evening Meg meets his eyes, an unspoken 'thank you' hanging between them. He holds her gaze for longer than he knows to be appropriate, and it is Meg who looks away first, wincing as she hurries to catch her sister. By the time they reach the carriage she is limping considerably, and Laurie's rudimentary scientific education compels him to break the silence.

'Meg – I think we need to attend to that ankle. It's terribly swollen; please, sit down and let me try to cool it some.' He can only think of one way to really help and gathers a handful of snow; Meg, realising his intentions pulls her skirts close and begins to protest, but once again, her sister speaks more loudly,

'An excellent idea my good fellow! Why Meg, you have a personal physician here as well as a chauffeur!' And Jo lifts her sister's unwilling ankle to allow Laurie to pack the snow around it.

Laurie raises his eyes to his patient as he tends to the sprain, resisting the urge to wink (not because he feels it is the right action for such a moment, but because he knows no other way to lighten the mood), finally settling instead for a tentative smile in the hope that Meg might be put at ease. She is mortified, he knows; to have a young man with whom she is but an hour acquainted placing his hands on her stockinged skin must defy a whole manner of debutante rules, but it is doing some good, the ankle already feels less angry, and Meg asserts her gratitude by shyly returning his smile. It is a moment of intimacy that Laurie is certain he will remember for the rest of his days, for with one look, Meg has ignited a flame that he fears he will not be able to easily extinguish.


	2. The most appalling secret

_In which Miss March admits a new player to the wild theatricals_

It was undeniable, they were indeed suffering from a shortage of players in the March family theatre troupe, and if they were to continue performing, bearing in mind the increasingly complex characterisations of Jo's literary works, something had to be done. The seasoned performers, Misters Margaret and Josephine, were skilled at taking the parts of leading lady and heinous villain respectively, but the junior company were somewhat lacking. Master Elizabeth's performances were vastly inhibited by his inability to utter a word before an audience, while Master Amy, although perhaps the company's most enthusiastic thespian, was just too inexperienced and diminutive (oh fine, Meg could be plain when called upon to be so – too small!) to convincingly take an adult role. So a solution had to be found, and one was soon offered by Jo in the form of Theodore Laurence.

'We'll put it to a vote,' she announced one afternoon when Amy finally refused to play a boy any longer.

Amy looked scandalized. 'But Jo! He'll laugh at our acting and poke fun at us later. He'll – he'll bear our souls and tell our most appalling secrets!'

Jo snorted, and fearing a confrontation between her two spirited sisters, Meg injected quickly. 'I fear he would find us improper.' Amy nodded in agreement, but Jo persisted,

'Please! Let's try him?' She looked imploringly at Meg, in the hope that her sister's dedication to the stage would trump her sense of propriety, and that the prospect of a life-sized Roderigo would be too great a temptation for the love-struck Lady Violet.

The actress herself could think of nothing but the Laurence boy's eyes meeting hers as New Year chimed some weeks ago, and of the involuntary quickening of her pulse as his fingers had dressed her swollen ankle with snow. Since that evening Jo and Amy had built quite a relationship with their neighbour, and even Beth had – albeit reluctantly at first – ventured to the great house next door, but Meg had stayed away as much as she could, finding ever more urgent chores at Orchard House that could not be carried out my Marmee and Hannah alone. The lure of the flowers in the Laurence's conservatory – which Jo described with ever-increasing hyperbole – did not compare to the temptation of the boy himself, and Meg's sixteen-year-old heart was ill-prepared for the rush of feelings he inspired. To have him here – every day! – to have him cemented as a friend, or worse, a _brother_ , would be unbearable.

A sudden rap on the props cupboard broke Meg's reverie and out tumbled the boy himself, laughing heartily as Jo released him from his prison. Heaven knew how long he'd been there and the unsuspecting sisters cried out in shock, retreating from the unwelcome figure as if he were a phantom or some other monster.

'Jo!' Meg's cries rang out loudest, horror at her sister's betrayal for a moment eclipsing the need to remain ladylike in before the imposter. 'How could you?'

Laurie (oh! good, chivalrous Laurie!) jumped at once to his friend's defence, dropping to his knees before the company, and proffering a wooden post box:

'Fellow artists, may I present myself as an actor, a musician, and a loyal and very humble servant. In token of my gratitude and as a means of promoting communication between adjoining nations, I shall provide a post office in our hedge, to further encourage,' with a wicked glance towards Amy, 'the bearing of our souls and the telling of our most _appalling_ secrets.'

The younger girls laughed – indeed, Amy looked quite enamoured of the proposal – but Meg remained impassive, thinking only of her own appalling secret, and how Laurie could never be party to such truths.

As if sensing her unease, the boy turned his attention to the eldest March sister and spoke directly to her, his eyes burning into hers.

'I do pledge never to reveal what I receive in confidence here,' and with that look came the invitation that none of the others could interpret, the request to become something more than neighbours, something that could not yet be defined but could be begun, here, now. Meg understood it all too well and, reaching for Amy's discarded hat, offered the only response she could.

'Well then,' she said, adorning her boy's head with shaking hands and (hopefully) none of the telling tenderness with which he had dressed her ankle so many nights ago, 'arise, Roderigo - '

' _Sir_ Roderigo!' interjected Jo.

\- and the players bowed to the newest member of their company, who grinned with the sheer joy of a child who has just been given everything he ever desired, and doffed to them his already crooked hat.

...

Later, once the rehearsal is over and Mister Laurie has been deemed a 'capital addition to our number', Meg stays behind in the attic to tidy away their makeshift stage and collect her thoughts, smiling gently to herself as the younger girls bound downstairs with their new playmate. She is so lost in thought that Roderigo's presence behind her goes unnoticed until he rests a bold hand on her shoulder, and she turns, abruptly, wide-eyed.

'Apologies, my good lady,' the noble prince says hurriedly, his wayward hand already retracted and held aloft in deference. 'I just wanted to thank you, for admitting me to your circle, and for being such a fine leading lady, in every sense. I had a wonderful afternoon.'

His face is so open, his words so sincere, that Meg does not pull away, nor does she chastise him for approaching a lady unexpectedly, unchaperoned. Instead she smiles, concurring, 'As did I. You are a fine actor, Mr Laurence.'

He hesitates for a moment, as if thinking better of his words, but then speaks anyway. 'I don't believe I am a fine actor at all, Meg. To pretend to be in love with you…it presents no challenge at all. I fear that pretending _not_ to be in love with you, when we are off the stage, will be a far greater task.'

He is only inches away and it would be so easy to take a step and let her lips meet his, for she knows, (how, she could not say, but she does) she _knows_ that this is what he wants. She knows that it would be so easy to continue the pretence for another moment, to be Lady Violet and Roderigo and seal their passionate union with a kiss, this time heeding a previously disregarded stage direction from Jo's original script. But she also knows that this is wrong, that this is not how proper young ladies and gentlemen conduct themselves and so she steps back, turning away as she repeats her assertion.

'You are a fine actor, Laurie. I'm sure you will manage the task admirably.' And she exits stage left, leaving the boy – and so much else – in her wake.


	3. Acts of romance

_In which Mr Laurence arranges an outing_

Laurie organises the outing to the theatre, and it is, he cannot deny, a contrived opportunity to spend time with Meg. He invites Jo of course – because how she would scold him if he did not! – and propriety demands that each young lady must be chaperoned, so he grudgingly asks Brooke if he will accompany them. Brooke agrees readily (all too readily in fact, once it is confirmed that Margaret will be in attendance) and seats are booked, a carriage arranged and the young ladies cordially invited by way of an engraved note in the hedge post box.

The invitation is quickly intercepted by Jo, and from behind the shield of the window sash. Laurie observes her shriek of pleasure and the excited sprint to tell her sisters of the plan. It is only from the syntax of a hurried message volleyed across the wall that evening – 'Of course we'll come! Wouldn't miss it for all the riches in Concord!' – that he can deduce that Meg must have accepted as well; still his heart leaps in anticipation, and he resolves to use the romantic ambiance of the 'Seven Castles' to his advantage.

…

When Laurie and Brooke present at Orchard House four nights hence, it is Jo who appears first, barrelling from the doorway in her usual haphazard fashion, a cry of 'Fiddlesticks' tossed over her shoulder to conclude some argument that originated within. Meg follows, fresh and feminine in palest blue, and he greets her with a kiss to the (alas! gloved) hand, which raises a chortle from Jo.

'Oh Teddy, you act as if we were the elite of society! No, don't try it with me' – for Laurie is in the process of trying to deflect his attentions to Meg by reaching for Jo's (ungloved) hand – 'come on! Let's go before that blasted Amy tries to stowaway in the carriage!' And she is gone, skirts rustling as she pulls Laurie with her, leaving Mr Brooke to escort the elder Miss March to their vehicle.

The journey passes easily, with Jo regaling the party with complaints about her youngest sister ('whining little ninny!') and tales of Aunt March's latest antics ('crotchety old spinster!'), and Laurie cannot help but laugh at the spirited descriptions. Over the past few months Jo has become his dearest friend, in many ways she is the brother he never had, and every minute spent in her company is filled with joviality and larks; she is in no way ladylike or demure, but he likes that very much, as he feels no compulsion to be a gentleman. With Meg he is a different person altogether– the young Mr Laurence perhaps, rather than Teddy – and while attempting to win her heart is his favourite pastime, he relishes the youthful freedom that his friendship with Jo brings. He knows that their reckless abandon on occasion displeases Meg; however, her displeasure is vastly preferable to her (feigned? He suspects so, but cannot be sure) indifference, and so he continues the pursuit of mischief with Jo in the hope that Meg will feel obliged to reform him.

On arriving at the theatre any plans for romance (on Laurie's part at least) are thwarted by the discovery that instead of four seats together, they have been allocated two sets of two. Simple mathematics permits only one solution: the young ladies may not sit unaccompanied, and Jo will not sit with Brooke, so Laurie must take his place alongside his friend while his heart's desire, accompanied by Brooke, enjoys the spectacle from several rows in front. Jo chatters merrily as they wait for the curtain to rise but Laurie's attention is elsewhere; he is no lip-reader, but he is almost sure he makes out the words 'please, call me John' immediately prior to a particularly telling flush from Meg. The play, when it begins, is in equal parts heart-wrenching and thrilling, and the curtain falls for the interval on the apparent demise of the hero – at this, Jo gasps and clutches his arm, and he is horrified to see Meg do the same to her companion. His interval ice is entirely soured by the image, and by the end of Act III his jealousy of his tutor is unbridled. He almost drags Jo from the theatre ('Teddy! What on earth is the matter?') and passes the journey home in silence, awarding Brooke the odd thunderous look and Meg a reproachful glance or two. Both are quiet, murmuring only the briefest of comments as Jo provides an enthused appraisal of Mrs Nell Watson's performance, and it a relief to all when they arrive home. Brooke disembarks first, reaching back to aid Meg as she steps out, and they walk arm-in-arm down the path to the March house.

Laurie catches Jo's arm as she moves to follow. 'Let's see what they do,' he proposes, reaching for his friends opera glasses. Jo giggles, acquiescing, and together they observe as Brooke takes Meg's hand as they reach the porch. Only his unerring faith in Meg's sense of propriety stops Laurie from rushing forward and tearing them apart; she will not kiss his tutor, of that he is certain, but something has changed this evening between the two. Jo reaches this conclusion at the same moment as Laurie but has none of the same restraint: she strides along the path and pulls her sister indoors, a cursory 'goodnight' cast over her shoulder. Meg's eyes are filled with apologies, but whether these are directed at Brooke or himself, Laurie cannot tell.

…

'That was rude!' Meg admonishes her sister as they remove their outdoor garments.

Jo scoffs in response. 'Well you plastered yourself on him!' She casts aside a shoe, her frustration leaving a scuff on the wall, and Meg turns on her.

'It's proper to take a gentleman's arm if it's offered! You seemed perfectly content to hang on to Laurie, should I not be permitted to do the same?'

'It's not the same at all, Teddy's my best friend! Mr Brooke is just a – a tutor! He'll have all sorts of awful ideas about you now, he'll think you like him!'

Meg colours, and is quieter now. 'Don't be ridiculous. He was my escort this evening, and I was most grateful for his company. We can't both – ' she stops before any more is said, and, exasperated, Jo disappears upstairs.

 _We can't both have Laurie_ is the truth that has become clear this evening, and Meg is too devoted a sister to deny it. Seeing Jo tonight, the way she smiles and laughs and craves Teddy's approval with every word, has made it clear that any feelings Meg may harbour for their neighbour would threaten a cherished friendship. Even though Laurie claims he loves Meg – and heaven knows, his behaviour tonight supports that assertion! – he is Jo's first and foremost, whether it is as a friend or brother or something more. So when Mr Brooke – _John_ , as she must now remember to call him – offered his arm (and, she suspects, his heart) this evening, it seemed foolish to reject him. He is, she has already discovered, intelligent and amusing, albeit in his own quiet way, and she feels she could grow to regard his company with enjoyment rather than mere gratitude.

 _The fact is_ , Meg realises as she bids goodnight to Marmee – blaming, as she does so, her flushed cheeks on the crowded theatre – _I can never have Laurie while Jo has Teddy_ (strange, how she regards them as two different people). It is too complicated, has too much potential for hurt, so she will step aside as a good sister should, and embrace this more straightforward courtship.


End file.
